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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28937391">Things Owed - Window of Opportunity</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Akamaimom/pseuds/Akamaimom'>Akamaimom</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Things Owed [11]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Stargate SG-1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, Canonical Character Death, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Fluff, Friendship/Love, Hurt/Comfort, Romance, Time Loop</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-01-23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-01-23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 03:34:37</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>7,718</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28937391</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Akamaimom/pseuds/Akamaimom</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Part of the "Things Owed" series. A group of one-shot episode tags. Jack and Sam have sacrificed a lot for each other over the years. Neither of them like the idea of being in debt to the other. Sam/Jack Ship.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Samantha "Sam" Carter/Jack O'Neill</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Things Owed [11]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/318164</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>53</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Things Owed - Window of Opportunity</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Things Owed--Window of Opportunity</p>
<p>This is the first episode in this series that is not in order. I do have other episodes planned between “Message in a Bottle” and this story, but the muse for this one hit me the hardest. So, here you go. Hope you enjoy it, even though it’s ridiculously long. &lt;&gt;</p>
<p> </p>
<p>The sandy planets were the worst. This one had been particularly obnoxious. Arid and dirty, with a wind that had picked up the sand and whipped it against his skin like tiny white-hot pellets of hellfire. His eyeballs felt gritty and raw, his skin burned as if he’d scrubbed himself from stem to stern with sandpaper, and he had a blister on the uppermost curve of his left ear. He couldn’t figure out where that had acquired the blister, but there it was. It itched. Worst of all, he just knew that he’d be finding granules of sand in random places for the next six months.</p>
<p>And then there had been the archaeologist, tethered so self-righteously to his cause, and that stupid Groundhog-Day machine of his that had sucked months from O’Neill’s life. Froot Loops, ancient alien languages, and the freakish monotony of the same day over, and over, and over--</p>
<p>Gah.</p>
<p>All he wanted to do now was sleep. They’d stepped back through the ‘Gate and immediately cleaned up just enough for the debrief, eaten just enough to hold them over. Once Hammond had finished his questions, Jack could have headed home. Not remembering in what condition he’d left said home, however, he’d decided to get himself back to a hundred percent before braving the unknown.</p>
<p>He’d taken longer in the stall than normal. Stood there for what seemed like an entire loop in the steady, lukewarm stream, praying to whichever god that was listening that the water wouldn’t just wash the sweat and dirt off his body, but could perhaps cleanse his mind, as well. Because he had memories. Loop memories. Some entertaining, some purely annoying, some downright maddening. Some which he’d pretty sure would eventually bite him in the butt.</p>
<p>Like a certain memory of himself and Carter, and a letter of resignation that had been put to exactly the right use. He’d lived off that moment for several Loop cycles, reliving the feel of her in his arms, her body held tightly against his own, her brief moment of confusion morphing so beautifully into enthusiastic, welcoming participation. He could still taste her, could still remember exactly what she’d smelled like--motor oil, coffee, and oranges. If he tried just - that - much, he could remember the feel of her fingers in the hair at the base of his neck, and how her pulse had thrummed in the hollow between her collarbones. Jack had been tempted to repeat his resignation trick -- to even take it a step further when the Loop had reset, but that little niggling annoyance called a “conscience” had kept him from following through on that urge.</p>
<p>What was that cliche about trying to unring bells? And damned if kissing Carter hadn’t set off a cacophony in his head.</p>
<p>And -- ahem -- elsewhere.</p>
<p>Purging her feel and taste from his memory would take a hell of a lot longer than a few months. He’d carry her within him for the rest of his life.  </p>
<p>Jack tilted his face upwards into the shower’s flow, reaching out both hands to steady his weight against the tiled wall of his stall. Soap from his hair ran down his shoulders and back, tickling the hairs on his thighs and calves. He was on his third round of suds. If he stayed in there much longer, he’d end up more wrinkled than a raisin. Not a good look, when all was said and done.</p>
<p>Muttering a little to himself, the Colonel squidged the rest of the water and soap out of his hair, then pivoted around in the shower’s flow to get rid of the last vestiges of suds everywhere else. He yanked the handle around to the upright position, and reached through the gap between the shower curtain and the stall’s wall to grab his towel. </p>
<p>He’d never been one to linger at his toilette. A few swipes of the towel, and he was ready to pull on some clean britches before wrapping the towel around his lower half and securing it with a twist and tuck at his waist. Barefoot, he padded towards his locker, finger-combing his hair with one hand, his trousers slung from the other.</p>
<p>Food sounded good. More food before home, he decided. That way, he wouldn’t have to cook once he got there. What time was it, anyway? Lunch? Dinner? Somewhere in between, probably. Not that the Mess cared for such niceties in planning its menu. Deep inside the Mountain, it wasn’t as if anyone really paid attention to things like time unless it was mission-necessary, much less the food services minions. Everytime he trudged through the line in there, all the food seemed to be precisely the same as it had been the millions of times before.</p>
<p>“Sir?”</p>
<p>Her voice drew him up short. Rocked back to the here and now, he was suddenly aware of his state of undress. Stopping short of his row of lockers, he pulled on his trousers before yanking off the towel he’d wrapped around his hips. Tossing the towel over his shoulder, he fumbled with -- and then fastened -- the button and fly before continuing forward. His attempt at modesty was ridiculous -- they’d all seen enough of each other undressed off-world to be truly discomfited by it Earth-side. </p>
<p>But then again, not so few incarnations of this day ago, he’d dipped her in the Control Room. And then he’d kissed her until neither of them could remember that the Control Room even existed -- taking his fill of her until he’d been forcibly Looped back to breakfast.</p>
<p>So, yeah. Prancing around in front of Carter in nothing more than his tighty-whities might not be the best idea today. </p>
<p>Not that she remembered any of it. But he did. And, to paraphrase Shakespeare, that was the rub.</p>
<p>She was sitting on the bench just to one side of his open locker door. Her cheeks were a little pink -- sunburn, or embarrassment, he couldn’t tell which. But those eyes. Huge, and wide, and so blue that he could lose himself in them. She was watching him. Unsure. A little hesitant. When she spoke, the words tumbled out of her in an uncomfortable rush. “I checked to make sure that you were the last one in here, but I was kind of worried that I’d missed someone. But it’s you -- so, that’s good.”</p>
<p>“Was there something you needed, Major?” He gestured towards the bank of lockers, palm up. “Here? In the men’s room?”</p>
<p>“Technically, it’s the men’s locker room, Sir.”</p>
<p>“There’s a difference?”</p>
<p>“Well, a men’s room would normally have toilets. Or urinals, or whatever. So, this isn’t a men’s room, per se.”  She stood, lithely stepping through the break between benches. The woman wasn’t capable of being anything but graceful, even when she was obviously off-kilter.</p>
<p>Jack watched as she shuffled towards the opposite line of lockers. As she leaned back against them, folding her arms across her sternum. Putting a barrier between herself and him? Or maybe just giving him room to manoeuver. Didn’t matter. Something was off. </p>
<p>“And the showers are -- ”</p>
<p>“They have curtains. Or, there are curtains in the women’s showers. I haven’t really looked at the men’s facilities lately. And I didn’t look just now in case there weren’t curtains -- because then I’d have seen -- well -- you know -- whatever should have been behind a curtain. If there were curtains.” </p>
<p>Pinkness had started creeping up her throat, now. So, not just sunburn. She was truly uncomfortable. Jack schooled his expression into something a little more benign. Joking always seemed to put her at ease. “Are you feeling okay? ‘Cause the last time you were in here, you tried to --” </p>
<p>The bridge of her nose crinkled. “I don’t --”</p>
<p>He tried levity. “You know. The Caveman thing. The Virus, or whatever. Strongest mate and all that.” Levity fell decidedly flat.</p>
<p>“Sir.” Clearing her throat, Sam straightened. “Can we not do that? The funny, cavalier thing. I need to say something, and if I don’t get it out --” her voice trailed away, disappearing completely as she nudged her shoulder upwards in a shadow of a shrug.</p>
<p>For several moments, Jack just stood there, looking at her. He hadn’t dried his hair well, and droplets of water slid down his neck, back, and chest, seeping into the waistband of his pants. Reaching for the towel on his shoulder, he swiped at his hair with it before tossing it over the still-open door of his locker. Then, he nodded, folding his arms across his chest and balancing a shoulder on the cold metal behind him. “Okay. Go ahead.”</p>
<p>She bit her lip -- white teeth bright against the deeper rose of her lip. Over the years, he’d become so accustomed to that from her that he’d forgotten how vulnerable it made her seem. That, along with those wide, nervous eyes, made her seem skittish and fretful -- like an abandoned fawn. Dropping her arms to her sides, she hitched her weight from side to side and drew in a tense breath. </p>
<p>“Sir, I lost my mother when I was a kid. You know that. She died in a car accident, and I blamed my father for a long, long time. Not that it was really his fault -- but I was young and naive, so that’s how it felt to me. Like it was.”</p>
<p>“Carter -- it --”</p>
<p>She so rarely interrupted him that it sort of shocked him when she did now. </p>
<p>“It was hard for all of us. My brother -- well, you know how that ended up. And my father was so heartbroken that he wasn’t really functional for a while. But for me, I was just a kid. I didn’t really know how to feel. I knew that it hurt, of course. Intensely. I missed my mother so badly that I couldn’t even take a deep breath for a long, long time. I wanted to talk to her, for her to comfort me. She was the one that I had always gone to when I was distressed or sad about something. And she was gone. So, there was nobody.”</p>
<p>He had no idea where she was going with this, so he merely stood there, waiting. </p>
<p>“So, there I was, a pre-teen girl in this house of angry, absent men. And you know what the worst part of it was?” She looked up at him, her eyes a little shimmery. “Nobody would talk about her. I would say something about how Mom would have done something or how much she would have liked -- something -- whatever -- and my dad and Mark would just dismiss me. They ignored any mention of her.”</p>
<p>She took a few steps towards the bench between them, stopping halfway. “So, I just went on with my life. I thought that was how things were supposed to be. She was just -- gone. I accepted it, I think. As best as I could.”</p>
<p>Jack watched as she waded through the memories, emotions wafting across her features like smoke in the breeze. After what seemed like a lifetime, she looked at him again, lifting a hand to tuck some stray strands of gold behind her ear.</p>
<p>“A few years ago, I hit a hard spot. After I broke off the engagement with Jonas, I was -- struggling a bit.” Those teeth again, worrying at her bottom lip as she worked up to her next point. “So, I went to see someone. A friend of mine referred me to a therapist. He helped me realize that I needed to work past more than just losing my fiance and that relationship. I still needed to work through losing my mom.”</p>
<p>A chill had settled in his gut -- a slow rush of coldness that had nothing to do with the dampness of his skin or hair. This was a conversation that he’d vowed never to have again. Not with anybody -- but especially not with her. Carter had been there not so many years before -- spoken with Sara, watched as he’d been confronted with a phantom from the past. She’d watched him take the not-Charlie back through the ‘Gate. And today -- just a  few hours ago -- she’d heard him rage at the archaeologist on that other planet. Heard him say -- what he’d said. She had to know what that had cost him. </p>
<p>He’d buried the dead twice. He couldn’t do it again. “Let me stop you right there, Carter.”</p>
<p>“Sir, please.”</p>
<p>“I know where you’re going with this.” He couldn’t stand to have her eyes on him -- not after all that had passed between them. He pivoted towards his open locker, grabbing the last clean t-shirt that he had. Roughly, without any kind of care, he yanked the shirt over his head, fighting with it as it clung awkwardly to skin he hadn’t completely dried.</p>
<p>“Sir. I’m just trying to -- ”</p>
<p>“I know, Carter.” He’d snarled at her. And he knew, even without looking at her, that she was wounded. Jack reached for the neatly-folded bundle of socks that sat on the shelf in front of him, scrambling for control. Ducking his head, he squeezed his eyes shut and tried to breathe deeply -- a feat which proved impossible through tight lips and clenched teeth.</p>
<p>“I just think that talking about it -- about him -- might help.”</p>
<p>“Might help who?” The socks nearly disappeared in the ball of his fist as he turned to face her. He looked ridiculous, he knew, standing there in pilfered trousers and bare feet, his shirt sticking to his skin. And damned if the panic wasn’t rising in him -- the same distress that had led him to go through the ‘Gate in the first place. Back when he was certain he wouldn’t return. When he’d seen his own death as a gift rather than a detriment. “Who exactly would be helped?”</p>
<p>“You can’t pretend that your son didn’t exist. You need to deal with his loss.”</p>
<p>“I have dealt with it.” He barely skimmed her with his gaze before dropping his eyes to his hands again, and the damned socks. “It’s done being dealt with.”</p>
<p>“I respectfully disagree.” Carter shifted on her feet, balancing back on one heel, her right hand rising to clutch at her left bicep. </p>
<p>A defensive posture, when all was said and done. Defending herself against him.</p>
<p>That she thought that necessary aggravated him even more.</p>
<p>“Respectfully, Carter, you’re in no position to disagree.” He bit the words out in a measured tone, staccato and terse. “Our situations are nothing alike.”</p>
<p>She’d gone completely pale. Her skin glowed nearly white--except for the angry blush that stained her throat and cheeks. Her mouth had settled into a tight, colorless line, and her eyes had deepened several shades beneath her tawny, furrowed brows. Wordless, she met his gaze for a heartbeat before losing her nerve and focusing instead on a random point over his shoulder. </p>
<p>And even though he knew that he’d hurt her, he couldn’t keep himself from nailing the proverbial coffin lid closed. “Don’t think that you have any idea what it’s like for me, Major. Or what I need to do about it. Don’t delude yourself into thinking that you really know anything about me. You don’t have a damned clue.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>-O-o-O-o-O-o-O-o-O-</p>
<p>She’d fled. It was the only way to describe it. Jack counted himself as twenty kinds of coward that he hadn’t been able to watch her go. He’d just keep glaring down at the wad of socks in his hands as her footsteps had faded through the doorway and down the hall. </p>
<p>Ultimately, he hadn’t been able to go home, either. He’d fired up the Super Duty and headed down the mountain, intending to drive straight to his house, but had instead meandered through the Springs for more than an hour before ending up at the one place that brought him less peace rather than more. Pulling to a stop at the edge of the manicured green lawn, he’d let the truck idle for a long time before heaving out a sigh and turning the beast off. </p>
<p>It was a beautiful day. Warm and breezy, with a sky so blue that it seemed like something off an artist’s palette.  August in Colorado was normally balmy and mild -- and this day lived up to that ideal with aplomb. </p>
<p>Jack opened the door and climbed out of the truck, shoving his keys into his pocket. He knew exactly where he was going, even if he rarely made this trek. Stepping carefully around markers and stones, he made his way fourteen rows in, towards the large pine tree that tilted just a little towards the East. </p>
<p>His soul hitched a little when he saw it. It was always like that, though, whenever he came here -- like feeling complete and abjectly empty at the same time. Crouching, he reached out and removed a dead twig that had fallen onto the stone and flicked it away. Satisfied, he straightened again, glaring down at the name on the stone. </p>
<p>Charlie O’Neill.</p>
<p>They hadn’t gone with the name on his birth certificate. ‘Charles’ didn’t seem quite right for a kid’s headstone. Too formal, somehow, too mature. It had been one of the last things that he and Sara had agreed on before Jack had descended into the self-recrimination and loathing that had ended the marriage. Sara had tried -- valiantly, lovingly -- to hold things together. O’Neill was honest enough with himself to admit that he hadn’t been capable of the kind of compassion that Sara had exuded. Maybe he still wasn’t.</p>
<p>He could still be a right pain in the ass, when he tried hard enough. </p>
<p>Sam’s face flickered across his frame of vision, and Jack scrunched his eyes closed against the image. She was everywhere, these days, so the fact that she’d followed him here shouldn’t have surprised him. She’d taken up residence in his head, in his soul. Hell, she’d become somewhat of a need for him. Like food, and water, and breath itself. </p>
<p>So, why had he snapped at her back in the locker room? After all, before they’d been sucked into the Loop, they’d made certain confessions, hadn’t they? Admitted to each other, and a few select witnesses, that their relationship had crossed over the proverbial line. And when all had been said, she’d been the one who’d wanted to leave it all in the room.</p>
<p>He’d not-so-grudgingly obliged. Until he’d handed Hammond that resignation letter.</p>
<p>Hunkering down again, Jack lowered himself to sit on the grass. It was quiet, except for the shushing of the breeze in the trees around him. In the distance, he could hear cars in the street outside the park, and every once in a while, a vehicle wended its way along the path through the cemetery itself. A few people were around -- a family gathered under an awning on the opposite side of the park from him, a pair of groundskeepers trimming bushes near the mausoleum in the center of the cemetery, an older couple several rows away from Jack, sitting on a memorial bench. </p>
<p>Alone together. Or something. </p>
<p>He turned back to look at Charlie’s marker, studied the cool gray stone, the starkly chiseled letters. Sara had wanted to put a picture on it -- a baseball glove, or an airplane -- something that would have symbolized some part of Charlie’s life, but Jack had nixed that idea. Now, so many years later, he couldn’t remember why.</p>
<p>Denial, maybe. Denial that their son was  in the ground. That Charlie -- their bright, mischievous, funny, curious, stubborn kid -- was really gone. Anger at himself, at the situation, at the world. Decorating the stone with pretty pictures wouldn’t have made any of it less real.</p>
<p>Squinching his eyes closed, Jack took a deep breath. It had been years since he’d been so raw -- since he’d felt it all bubble up so close to the surface. He’d kept things relatively light during the debrief, glossing over his outburst on -639, playing down his part in the alien man’s decision to shut his operation down. Daniel had been the one to summarize that portion of the events. And Daniel -- being Daniel -- knew what to say and what to omit. </p>
<p>But then she’d appeared in his locker room, probing old wounds as if they were specimens on her lab table. And true to form, he’d lashed out rather than shared -- hurting her in the process.</p>
<p>O’Neill swore, dropping his chin towards his chest. He could see her in the darkness behind his eyelids, the quiver of her chin, the pallor in her cheeks as her jaw had tensed. And those eyes -- vivid pools of pain. </p>
<p>When all she’d wanted was to understand. </p>
<p>Grunting a little, Jack heaved himself to his feet, brushing stray blades of grass off his backside as he rose. Shoving his hand into his pocket, he stopped short. He’d been reaching for his keys, but his fingers closed around his phone instead. Almost without thinking, he drew it out of his pocket, flipped the thing open with his thumb, and dialed. </p>
<p>And damned if she didn’t answer before he could think twice and hang up. </p>
<p>“Well, this is ironic. I was just thinking about you.”</p>
<p>O’Neill frowned a little before responding. “Were you? Good things, I hope.”</p>
<p>“Yes.” Sara laughed into the phone -- breathy and soft. “Good things.”</p>
<p>“Well, that’s a relief.” Somehow, Jack didn’t think that he sounded too relieved, but he’d tried. </p>
<p>“You don’t sound right. Are you okay?”  </p>
<p>Of course, she’d know. Sara had always been able to read him. Jack adjusted his hold on his cell phone and took a steadying breath. “I’m at The Gardens.”</p>
<p>It took Sara several moments to work through that. When she was ready, she made a noise that sounded like a faint hum. Jack glared down at his boots before continuing. “Something happened today. Something that made me think about -- it all. About Charlie.”</p>
<p>“Oh?” The word sounded a bit strangled. “Something like -- before? Like what happened a few years ago?”</p>
<p>“No. Nothing like that.” </p>
<p>“Okay.” Wary, skittish, Sara drew out the syllables in an invitation for him to explain himself. </p>
<p>“There’s a -- colleague. He’s lost his wife and hasn’t been able to get past it.” Not quite a lie, but not close enough to the truth to be breaking any rules. O’Neill walked a little ways away from the pine, back towards where he’d left his truck. “Anyway, I talked to him a little bit.”</p>
<p>“You talked to him about Charlie?” Incredulity saturated her tone. “You usually keep all of that locked up tighter than Fort Knox.”</p>
<p>“That bad?”</p>
<p>“Jack.” Even after so many years, she knew just how to put him in his place. “C’mon. You know how you are.”</p>
<p>Well, crap. She could have at least tried to spare his feelings. Somehow, it was better that she hadn’t, though. “That bad.”</p>
<p>“Let’s put it this way. You’re an expert in putting all of your feelings in neat little boxes. And then you store all those boxes away in some giant warehouse inside somewhere. Like that Indiana Jones movie with the Ark of the Covenant. You know -- at the end, when they stick it in a box and shove it in with all the other identical boxes?”</p>
<p>He’d seen that movie. “Yeah.”</p>
<p>“That’s you and the emotional stuff.”</p>
<p>He didn’t need to answer her, but he made a noise into the phone, anyway. Just to acknowledge that he’d heard her.</p>
<p>“I know it’s easier for you to shove it away, but it’s not sustainable.”</p>
<p>What did that mean? O’Neill glared down at the grass beneath his boots, nudging at it a little with his toe. “I’m not sure I follow you.”</p>
<p>“Okay.” Sara paused, looking for the right words? Maybe. Or maybe just to make sure that he was really listening. “Stan and I went to Hawaii a few months ago. We went to the Big Island and saw Kilauea. It’s a volcano.”</p>
<p>“I know what it is.”</p>
<p>“Well, Stan was there studying it as part of the Geological Survey team that he’s on, and I tagged along, just for fun.” </p>
<p>“For fun.”</p>
<p>“And it was, Jack. Fun, I mean. And fascinating.” Something ‘flumped’ in the background -- as if Sara had settled into a couch or an overstuffed chair. Probably the one in her living room, next to the window. “Anyway, the geologists in the group were talking about different kinds of volcanoes, and how some just kind of continuously release lava from different vents, and how some build and build and build magma beneath the surface until the pressure becomes too great.”</p>
<p>“Interesting.” He knew where she was going with this. Still, Jack merely stood there, the sun warm on the back of his neck, and let her go on. </p>
<p>“Most people are like Kilauea. Stuff builds up beneath the surface and oozes out as needed to release the pressure. Sometimes more forcefully than at other times -- but steady, you know?”</p>
<p>He did. He nodded, even though he knew she couldn’t see him. “I’m guessing that I’m not one of those people.”</p>
<p>“You?” There was that breathy laugh again. More knowing than humorous, this time. A sound so familiar that it made his teeth ache. “You’re freaking Vesuvius, Jack. And once you blow, nothing around you stands a chance.” </p>
<p>-O-o-O-o-O-o-O-o-O-</p>
<p> </p>
<p>The sun was low over the western horizon when Jack pulled up in front of the little gray and white house. The porch light hadn’t gone on yet, but through the sheer curtains on the front windows, he could see a warm yellow glow coming from somewhere in the back of the residence. The kitchen, probably. Setting the gear to “park”, he turned the engine off and pulled the key.</p>
<p>It had been three days since their last Loop. Two and a half days since he’d emerged, dripping, from the shower to find Carter waiting for him next to his locker. He’d barely slept since then, barely eaten. After he’d left the cemetery, he’d spent a few hours sitting at Sara’s kitchen table. It had felt good to be there, even after Stan had come home and joined them. </p>
<p>All in all, Sara had landed in a good place with a good man. Jack couldn’t ask for anything better for the first woman he’d ever loved. Somehow, it helped to mitigate his own failures to know that she’d be okay. That she was happy and loved and well. That she’d made it through -- and then beyond -- the hell that he’d become mired within. </p>
<p>The fact that she still believed in him had made Jack think that maybe -- just maybe -- he could make it out, too.</p>
<p>Which brought him back to this house, with its tidy front porch and neat wood siding. Her Volvo was parked on the street directly in front of the house, and he could just barely make out the shape of her Indian, draped in weathered canvas, hugging the eastern outside wall. Someone had done some recent yard work -- the shrubs surrounding her front yard were looking a little more scrawny than they’d been last time he’d been here.</p>
<p>Reaching across the center console, Jack grabbed the bag he’d stowed there earlier, hauling it with him as he opened the door and climbed out of the truck. He closed the door with a practiced motion, then crossed the street -- his long strides making short work of the distance. </p>
<p>Before he could think better of it, he was at her door, pressing the bell. Expecting -- what?</p>
<p>Hell if he knew.</p>
<p>Footsteps sounded dully behind the door, and then the door cracked open. She hadn’t been expecting anybody -- least of all him. She was dressed in a pair of cut-off denim shorts and a voluminous gray Air Force sweatshirt that sagged down over one shoulder, leaving it gloriously bare. But her expression floored him. Steel and shadow -- she peered at him stoically through the gap between frame and door, her eyes devoid of anything beyond a hazy resignation.</p>
<p>This was going to be harder than he’d thought it would be. He adjusted his grip on the handle of the bag. </p>
<p>“Sir?” Her brows rose nearly imperceptibly. As if she were bored. “Did you need something?”</p>
<p>“Umm -- no.” He shook his head, shoving his truck keys into his pocket. “I just wanted to talk.”</p>
<p>“About the other day?” Her lips thinned even as her brows rose a bit more. “Because you made it pretty clear that talking wasn’t on your list of priorities.”</p>
<p>“No.” O’Neill shook his head, dropping his gaze to the floor. His boots looked huge next to her bare feet. Her toenails were pink. One of the big toes had a sparkly flower painted on it. Focus. “I mean -- it’s kind of about that day, but not how you think.”</p>
<p>“And what exactly do I think, Colonel?” Her eyes narrowed. “Please tell me.”</p>
<p>Pressing his lips together, Jack clenched his jaw. He deserved it. This distrust -- this reaction from her. She had every right to be upset with him. “Can we just go inside?”</p>
<p>Sam opened her mouth, thought for a second, and then closed it again. She’d had a retort, but re-thought it. After what seemed like an age, she swung the door wide and stepped aside in latent invitation. </p>
<p>Careful not to crowd her, O’Neill crossed the threshold and took several steps into the entryway. To his left was the formal living room, her office/ workspace taking up the entire eastern half. On his right was a formal dining room. He’d been right about one thing -- at the end of the entryway, the kitchen lights were burning. He could see a half-empty plate on the island, and the chair she’d obviously been sitting in askew in the space between the kitchen and the small family room on the other side. He’d interrupted her dinner. </p>
<p>“I could come back another time. I didn’t mean to bother you in the middle of a meal.”</p>
<p>Carter padded around him, her feet nearly silent on the wood floor. Without a word, she lifted the plate and the silverware and carried it around to the other side, settling it at the bottom of the sink. “I’d just finished.”</p>
<p>“Are you sure? ‘Cause it looked like you’d only finished half -- “</p>
<p>With a curt, harsh motion, she turned on the faucet and rinsed off her dish. When she was satisfied, she flipped the handle so forcefully the other way that the entire assembly shimmied.</p>
<p>Okay, then. O’Neill took the hint.</p>
<p>Carter glared down into the sink. The set of her jaw forced that dimple to crease her right cheek and her lips to thin down to practically nothing. When she finally lifted her eyes to his, they were cloudy, and gray. Like the ocean after a storm.</p>
<p>“Why are you here, Sir?” Strained, her words fell out in a staccato strand. “You made it clear that you had very little regard for anything I had to say.”</p>
<p>Jack swallowed, running a palm over the stubble on his chin. “You just caught me off guard, Carter.”</p>
<p>“Okay.” Wary, she tilted her chin to one side. </p>
<p>“I’m not that person, Carter.”</p>
<p>“Excuse me?”</p>
<p>“That person. You know -- the one who always knows how to do the talking.”</p>
<p>“Yeah.” Her eyes flew wide. How she turned that into a sarcastic gesture was a mystery, but somehow, she had. “That’s patently obvious.”</p>
<p>“I’m sorry about how --” Jack paused, searching for the right words. “About how I came across. You caught me at a really awkward moment.”</p>
<p>“Okay.” She stepped backwards, away from the sink. Reaching out, she grabbed a towel from the handle of the oven door and started to dab at her hands. “I’d just thought that we were closer than that.”</p>
<p>“We were.” Jack reached out and placed his bag on the chair she’d vacated. “We are.”</p>
<p>Slowly, deliberately, she folded the towel and positioned it just so on the oven handle again. “And yet, you’ve never talked to me about it. About losing him.”</p>
<p>He’d known it would get to this place, and yet his soul still fought it. He’d buried it all ages ago -- both the child and his memory. O’Neill’s grief had never waned, it had simply shifted into something else. Action, perhaps. Purpose. Determination that the world would be a safer place for other people’s kids, maybe, or just a resolve to never get close enough to another person to feel that kind of pain again. </p>
<p>All he knew for certain is that he didn’t want to die anymore. There was something to live for, now. Someone, even, maybe. But, fundamentally, he’d never be anything other than who and what he was. You could dress him up pretty, but he’d never be anything other than what he was when he was in the trenches. “I’m a guy, Carter. We don’t share.”</p>
<p>She snorted. “I talk to Daniel all the time. He and I have discussed a lot of deeply personal things.”</p>
<p>“But that’s Daniel. He’s an aberration.”</p>
<p>“He’s a guy.”</p>
<p>“He’s a man.” The Colonel wrenched his shoulders upward in a semblance of a shrug. “But he’s not like me. He and I inhabit the same gender. But that’s where the similarities end.”</p>
<p>He could see in her expression that she understood what he was throwing at her. She softened a little, her perfect little teeth worrying at her lower lip. “All right. I get that.”</p>
<p>“The thing is, Carter,” he stalled for a moment, searching for the right words. He had to get this right. “I don’t know how to be that man. The one like Daniel. I’m not into sharing. I don’t like being -- open.”</p>
<p>“You don’t like being vulnerable.” </p>
<p>Of course she’d have a better word. “Yeah. That.”</p>
<p>“Nobody likes being vulnerable, Sir.” Her voice softened, her brows squinched a little towards the divot at the bridge of her nose. “But allowing other people in is what makes relationships work.”</p>
<p>“Are we in a relationship?”</p>
<p>Her expression winnowed into something indefinable. Finally, she shook her head, throwing her hands up in a gesture of futile acknowledgement. “We’re in something, aren’t we?”</p>
<p>“But we shouldn’t be.”</p>
<p>“You’re right.” Sam’s lips curved into a rueful smile. “But, still, we are.”</p>
<p>But what if she knew? What if she got what she wanted, and he let her in? What if she knew what he harbored inside, in those parts of him that he’d boxed up so tightly that nothing could escape? Ridiculously, he thought of what Sara had said about crates and warehouses and ancient arks. And then he thought about Kilauea, and Vesuvius. Pressure, power, and destruction.</p>
<p>“You have this image of me in your head. But it’s not real. It’s a fantasy.” Jack ran his fingers through the coarse mess that was his hair, turning away from her and taking a step backwards. It was a defensive measure -- at least, that’s what Sara would have said. “There are things. From my past -- not just Charlie. Stuff that I can’t talk about because it’s still classified. And other actions I’ve taken that were, shall we say,  less than noble.”</p>
<p>“Sir --”</p>
<p>“And there are more things that are shameful, horrible, and disturbing. Things that I’ve done in darkness, that should never see the light of day. Things that would change how you look at me. What you think of me.”</p>
<p>“Sir, I --”</p>
<p>“You asked, Sam.” He wasn’t aware he was going to use her first name until he’d done it. It tasted different on his lips than the other things he called her. More deliberate, somehow. Certainly, more intimate. “You asked.”</p>
<p>“Yes.” She nodded, making her way around the island to stand several feet away from him at the other end. “I did.”</p>
<p>“So, you see, I’m not that guy. The one who’s going to chatter on about anything and everything.” He reached out and flicked at the handle of the bag on the chair next to him. “If that’s what you’re expecting, you’re going to be sorely disappointed.”</p>
<p>A thousand expressions tumbled across her face in the breath of a moment. Confusion, frustration, compassion, worry, hurt, intrigue. And then, something else -- something indescribable. What settled on her features reminded him of another time when she’d been completely honest with both herself and him, strapped to a chair, with that damned band around her head and Freya prodding both their psyches. He’d never given that expression a name. But it was the one that he cherished the most. </p>
<p>“Well, then,” Sam lifted her bare shoulder in the semblance of a shrug. A few steps brought her closer, within an arm’s length, with only the chair and his ridiculous bag in the space between them. “I guess I’ll take whatever you’re able to give.”</p>
<p>“You deserve more than that.” And he wasn’t sure exactly what he was referring to -- only that it was the truth. She deserved far, far more than he’d ever be able to offer, or be. She was light, and he had always existed in shadow. She was goodness, and strength, and hope -- while he was the antithesis to all of that.</p>
<p>As if she could read his thoughts, she stepped past the chair and lifted her hand to rest against the rough stubble on his jaw. “So do you, Jack. I wish that you could see yourself the way I do.”</p>
<p>Damn it. He couldn’t stop himself. He needed this. Needed her. It had been stupid to kiss her while they’d been Looping. Insane to allow himself that bit of indulgence. And even as he reached for her, as his hands settled at the small of her back and on the gentle swell of her hip -- as her own arms encircled his shoulders, as her fingers threaded into the hair at the nape of his neck, he cursed himself and his weakness. He tucked his face into the graceful curve of her neck, where her sweatshirt had slipped off her shoulder. His lips found, and teased at the divot just above her collarbone and the warm skin there. Breathing deeply of her, he closed his eyes and simply allowed himself to revel -- however dangerously -- in her essence. </p>
<p>She sighed against his cheek, brushing her mouth against his jaw. “Can I tell you something?”</p>
<p>“Mm.” It was really all he could muster, under the circumstances. </p>
<p>“I had a dream a while ago. About this.” She pulled away a little, just so that she could look at him. Her arms still draped around his shoulders, her fingertips tracing random designs on the back of his neck. “I dreamed that you and I got caught making out on base. In the control room, of all places.”</p>
<p>Well, hell. Jack frowned. In for a penny, right? “Funny you should bring that up.”</p>
<p>“What do you mean?”</p>
<p>“You want me to tell you stuff, right?” </p>
<p>“Only if you want to.”</p>
<p>He fortified himself with a deep breath. “During one of the Time Loops, I might have retired. Again.”</p>
<p>“Why?”</p>
<p>“So that I could kiss you. In the control room.” </p>
<p>Oh, that smile. Brilliant and true. “Seriously?”</p>
<p>“Seriously.”</p>
<p>“How was it?” </p>
<p>Stupid is as stupid does. Wasn’t that what that guy in the movie had said? The one obsessed about boxes of chocolates. O’Neill knew that what he was doing fit that bill, but was incapable of stopping himself. </p>
<p>Slowly, he slid his hand up her spine, shifting his balance to take her weight as he bent her backwards over his arm. She breathed out a laugh, tightening her hands around his shoulders, tilting her head back as he lowered his mouth to her throat. He could sense her pleasure -- the way her pulse leapt beneath his lips, the way her fingers dug into his body. He skimmed his way up to her jaw, her cheek, her temple, before making his way to her mouth. Sam met him fully, eagerly, taking him as completely as he did her, open, and warm, and sweet. </p>
<p>It was different than it had been in the Loop. More, somehow. Softer, where her body pressed up against his, more intimate as her bare foot skimmed his outer calf -- as that sweatshirt draped lower on her shoulder, as she explored him with her fingers and tongue. She sighed against his mouth, purring a little as his free hand drifted up from her hip to graze her abdomen, her rib cage, as he tore himself away from the kiss to make a leisurely trail back down her throat, teasing at the tender skin at the base of her throat with his lips. And then down even further, to where the soft, worn cotton of her shirt rode lightly upon other softnesses.</p>
<p>“Jack.” </p>
<p>Little more than a whisper, but it dragged him back to the here and now. Resigned, he lingered for a beat before warming her skin with a final kiss. Then, damning himself for his lack of self control, he set her back upright and then untangled himself from her. </p>
<p>It took everything he had to take a step back and away from her. “Geez -- Sam. I’m --”</p>
<p>“Holy Hannah.” Her fingers rose and touched her lips, as if trying to capture something precious.</p>
<p>“I’m sorry.” Jack reached out and picked up the bag he’d brought. “I should go.”</p>
<p>“Wait.” She reached for his arm, catching a handful of his sleeve, instead. “It’s okay. Now I know.”</p>
<p>“You’re not mad?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“A little overwhelmed, maybe.” The dimple in her cheek reappeared, deeper than before. Her fingers tweaked the fabric of his shirt. “But I asked, right? So, it’s all good.”</p>
<p>“Still. I should go.” Pulling away from her, Jack backed up, poking a thumb towards the front door.</p>
<p>“Wait.” Carter nodded at his cargo. “You brought something to show me?”</p>
<p>O’Neill let out a haggard breath, adjusting his hold on the handles. “You’d asked about him.”</p>
<p>Her bare feet brought her back to his side. Without a word, she stopped next to him, reaching down and into the sack, withdrawing its contents.</p>
<p>The book looked larger in her hands than it had in his own. She balanced it in one hand, touching the raised letters on the cover with the other. One brow raised in blatant invitation, she made her way to the sofa in front of her fireplace and sat down. </p>
<p>He followed, sinking into the couch next to her. </p>
<p>“His name was really Charles?”</p>
<p>“Yeah. But we never called him that. He was named after my father. Charles just seemed too big a name for a little guy.” Jack opened the book, setting it down so that one half was on her thigh, the other side of the book on his. “This was taken right after he was born.”</p>
<p>“Was he a big baby?”</p>
<p>“Seven pounds or so. Not huge.”</p>
<p>“And here?”</p>
<p>“That was his christening. Sara put him in this ridiculous little suit. It had a tie on it.”</p>
<p>“It’s cute.”</p>
<p>“It was ridiculous.” </p>
<p>She touched the page gently -- almost reverently tracing the paper frame to which the picture had been affixed. They were too close again, shoulder to shoulder, thigh to thigh. His heart had barely stopped racing from the kiss they’d shared when he felt it beat more strongly again. A new kind of intimacy, this. Different, yes, but just as potent. </p>
<p>Carter flipped another page, grinning down at the picture. Christmas. Jack was sitting in front of a scrawny, but well-trimmed, tree with a chubby Charlie nestled in his lap. He was smiling, even though his right arm had been immobilized in a sling, the bandages extending all the way to his fingertips.</p>
<p>“What happened?”</p>
<p>O’Neill dug through his memory. “Uhh -- special ops mission. I got shot, fell off a building. I got lucky and was able to recuperate at home over the holidays. That’s one of the Christmasses I didn’t miss.”</p>
<p>For what seemed like an eternity, she didn’t speak. She studied the picture, then looked up at him next to her. “It’s all mixed up, you know? The good and the bad. You could look at this picture and only remember the mission, and getting injured. You could dwell on the fact that something -- maybe everything -- had gone wrong.”</p>
<p>He could have. But all he could remember from that Christmas was that he and Sara had been happy. Charlie had learned to crawl a week or so before Christmas, and they’d spent the entire rest of the season either fishing him out from under the tree, or wresting ornaments from his grabby little fists. </p>
<p>“We ended up that year with all the ornaments on the upper third of the tree. I’m pretty sure that Charlie ate a few branches of the tree, too. He was teething, and chewed on anything he could get his mitts on.”</p>
<p>He’d nearly forgotten about that. </p>
<p>She’d been right -- what she’d been saying about losing her mom. What she’d been trying to tell him about losing his son. Yes, Charlie had died -- and it had nearly destroyed him. But right now, looking at these pictures, talking about his son, the pain was lessening a bit. As if remembering his kid like this had brought him back -- just a little. Bad mixed with good. Darkness blended with light. Sorrow tempered by joy. Life itself made more precious by death. Death made less potent by clinging to life.</p>
<p>“Thank you, Sir.” She leaned into him a little, nudging his shoulder with her own.</p>
<p>“For what?”</p>
<p>“For sharing this with me.” Her clear blue gaze studied him. “For sharing him with me.”</p>
<p>And somewhere inside him, something loosened. One of the crates in his warehouse, maybe. A wall he’d constructed. Or maybe it was just magma working its way to the surface. Mixed metaphors, misplaced symbolism, crazy analogies. Whatever it was, it felt right.</p>
<p>“It’s okay.” Regardless, it was Jack’s turn to smile as he nudged her back. “After all, I figured I owed you.”</p>
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